Far Too Simple
by The Fandom Garrison
Summary: Rose Tyler (nineteen, orphaned, shopgirl, suspicious) needs to escape her chaotic life where every one pretends they give a damn. Matt Smith (twenty-one, youngest of five, early college graduate, an open book) needs to break away from a suffocating life where too many people give a damn. Can they both heal with each other? HumanDoctorAU Eleven/Rose(T for mild lang)(Chap 2 is fixed)
1. Prologue

**ALRIGHT. IM SORRY. I HAD TO GET THIS OUT! THIS MOST LIKELY WILL NOT BE A PRIORITY STORY. BUT ENJOY AND IF YOU REALLY WANT MORE UPDATES THEY WILL BE GIVEN! **

Alone, they were two tragic stories. Two lost causes. Two more numbers on the infinite scale. Two jagged pieces of a whole like seashell fragments tossing in the ocean waves, slowly eroded and worn down until they are nothing.

But together, they were the very tide. They were the sun, they were the moon.

Together, they were infinitely terrifying.

But her story starts in the chaos of London at a Council Estate, no family to be seen as she is yanked about in her daily bedlam. She is told what to do and where to be and what to be and where to go and who to admire and while she's so tired of it all and wants to scream at the world until their ears rings for eternity, she thinks that she deserves it. She doesn't believe that she's part of something greater. She never thinks she'll be able to make someone happy. She doesn't have anyone to look up to, no family to confide in. She's young and hopeless, nineteen years old and in a city of millions yet so, so alone. She works for years, always putting a bit of money away for who-knows-what, until she checks her savings one day and realizes she has enough to make her escape. It can be quiet, it can be easy, it can be peaceful. As soon as she can, she packs her meager belongings in her second-hand car and drives away. She wants out. She needs to get out.

His story begins with an end. He's suffocating, drowning in all these strangers who call themselves family while they tell him what to do and where to be and what to be and where to go and who to admire and he doesn't want to upset them so he goes along with it his whole life...and by the time he realizes what he has they've all dwindled away. They've died of old age or gotten married or had kids or got a job and he's just stuck. Never moving forward. It's like he's left in a giant mansion that once held so much life, but now he's alone with only the echo of the walls to accompany him in his aimless wander. So he gathers every penny he's saved up in 21 years of life and he runs. Some part of him thinks he's finally changing, while another part thinks he's sinking in old habits like quicksand. But he just runs. He wants out. He needs to get out.

A short time later, they click together. This is where their reign begins— At a lodgers house on their path of flight do they find each other.

And when they collide, the stars will sing.

**Hello! Yes, sorry! This has been swimming in my head—partly inspired by 0RainbowProductions videos—'A Small Safe Place in This Troubling World' and 'My Mind Holds The Key.' I will be updating other stories soon, promise! **

**Review ****and tell me what you think! **


	2. A Pain (fixed)

**hey! Yeah. Sorry. I wrote this a while ago, so decided to update.**

**hey! This a re-upload! There was something seriously messed up the first time I tried to post this chapter. Like, half the story got deleted and the rest scrambled. So, yeah. It wont happen again. I didn't realize it was so messed until I'd up posed it! **

An eight hour drive along the desolate countryside, and Rose was about ready to drop for exhaustion.

She had finally found a boarding house—the only one for miles, apparently. It was a rickety little place, set on a desolate strip of sandy soil at the side of a cracked, rutty road—but thank god they had two vacancies. She could stay here until she was ready to move on.

She irritatedly blew a persistent strand of hair out of her eyes as she lugged her suitcase through the door and dragged it over the uneven floor boards, grunting with the strain. By the time she made it to the foot of the stairs, her fingers aching horribly and she wanted to sob at the steep incline of the staircase. But she gritted her teeth and walked up one step, then dragged the luggage behind her cringe-worthy _THUNK_. Walked up another, pulled it up one more. She continued this agonizingly slow trek for about ten steps—suddenly, the warped wheels of the suitcase slipped back down the steps, nearly ripping her arm out of its socket and yanking her back with it. For a moment, she was falling as she was towed down and was sure she'd break her neck—

With a rather painful thunk that caused a supernova explosion in her eyes, the back of her head collided with something both hard and soft—definitely not the floor—and something wrapped around her waist so tightly it was hard to suck in the air that her spooked lungs needed. For an instant, she was bewildered and clueless—then she felt rather than heard a voice in her ear, sounding as alarmed as she felt.

"Good God—" It gasped, distinctly male, "Are you okay?"

With a burst heat in her cheeks, she pulled free of his grasp—he had caught her from behind— and turned to face him, trying not to blush—especially when she saw him.

He looked young—maybe about her age. His dark hair was somehow fluffy and shaggy at the same time—sticking up in every direction in the most adorable way possible to top off a peculiar face. He wasn't necessarily handsome—but he was good looking in a natural way. Not artificial or staged like a plastic Ken Doll. His bright green eyes are wide and honest—so sincere, so simple that it makes her head spin.

"Ah—um, yeah," she says far too quickly, fighting the heat that's rising in her neck when she realizes she's staring. She averts her eyes slightly, busying her vision with the zipper of his coat, but she can still see the happy smile he gives her—and honestly, there's no other word for it. It's isn't kind, like he pities her. It isn't a smirk, like he thinks she's dumb. It isn't seductive or flirting, like he's trying to woo her. It isn't bored, or sad, or frustrated...

Just happy, like he's pleased to see her.

He continues his own trek up the stairs—and to her surprise, she realizes he's carrying her suitcase up for her. Her heart leaps in her throat—and she opens her mouth to protest, reaching for the handle—

"No, it's fine," he assures her gently with a little half-smile that makes Rose's heart swoop in her chest. "I got it."

He carries it up the steep flight as if it's nothing with her trailing awkwardly behind. When he sets it down at the top of the steps, she takes the handle from him a bit too quickly, her fingers brushing his and he let's go and she grips it tightly, her knuckles turning white.

For a moment, they stand there in an uncomfortable silence.

"Um, thanks," is all she says, cursing her dumb tongue, and for some reason she makes eye contact again—and suddenly she is so awestruck by his vivid eyes, so overwhelmed by the simplicity in them and the _niceness_—and confusion wells in her gut and traps air in her lungs and she can't breathe because she's scared because there must be a motive—people don't just do nice things, especially for her. She's learned that the hard way.

So she abruptly turns on heel and leaves him standing there as she walks too quickly to her room, yanking the warped door open, slamming it shut, locking it firmly with rusting gears and flopping down on the musty, threadbare quilt of her borrowed bed, groaning lowly.

She knows exactly what's causing these butterflies in her stomach. She knows what's making her heart want to lift exuberantly out of her chest every time she sees him.

It's that look in his eyes.

All her life, Rose had been treated with, what—_four_ different attitudes? To her, there were four different kinds of people in this god—forsaken world.

There were the pitiers—who could be anyone, from people her own age to parents who used her as an example to their children (You better get your A-levels, or you'll end up working class like her) to old ladies who overpaid or slipped an extra dollar in her bag or gave her a half hearted compliment. These were the people who instinctively looked at her and saw a poor child mistreated by life, the result of _bad parenting_ of all things. And that wasn't it—the fact that someone would suggest Rose's parents incompetent made her blood boil. But they had died when she was ten—both in the same hit and run.

Then, there were the nosers. Yes, appropriately named for the facial feature that often accompanied the looks sent her way. These were the humans who saw her as a low life, a slacker, a consequence of her own laziness and incompetence. They scrutinized her flaws, exploited them, and used them to justify their attitude towards her. They treated her like she was a dumb, stupid animal with a negative IQ.

And she couldn't forget the perverts. Not all of them were exactly that, but these were the idiots who looked at her and saw someone desperate—so desperate, in fact, that she would do anything to get laid. They flirted with her, using anything from awfully cheesy pick up lines to straight up asking her if she _wanted_ to. (And no, she didn't! She was a virgin, thanks very much!). These guys were actually easy to handle, and if they weren't...well, Rose had to credit her skill at self defense to somebody.

But the last group were the brains. To Rose, they were the most frightening. They saw her as an opportunity, a way to get something done. She was a pawn to them, a expendable slab. But they were smart, manipulative. They could fool you, and they were good at it. You could go an errand for your nice friend and get arrested on the way for drug possession.

So, whoever this boy was, he had to be one of them. He wasn't a noser, that was for sure. Those folks were very open about how they felt. He might be a pitier, or even a brain. Or perhaps a really tactical pervert. That would be new, though—a cross between a pervert and a brain. A brervert. A pain.

Maybe he was a pain.

But at the end, it just came down to that look in his eyes. In her years, Rose had become pretty good at reading people. But he didn't look imperious. He didn't look lustful. He didn't look pitious, and he didn't look calculating. He didn't even look _kind_. Just...nice, was that the word? Maybe. What about...sweet? No, those scraped the surface, but didn't quite fit.

No. He was ongoing.

Ongoing. Constant. Traversing, right? Maybe even undecided. But the point was, he was an open book. He had potential. He hadn't glued himself to a stereotype yet. He was unpredictable.

Why did that make her feel excited? What did that send hope swelling in the pit of her stomach like a water balloon—

No. No, he just couldn't be. Everyone had a reason. This guy, he may not be a noser...

He was probably a pain.

**I will update my priority stories soon. Promise. **

**Review please!**


	3. Pepper Spray

Rose remained in blissful solitude for another hour until the sour–mouthed land lady called them all down for dinner. To Rose's dismay, the boarding house seemed to be filled with nothing more than rowdy men, all of them many years older than her. She tried to sit quietly and choke down the bitter, watery soup, trying to disappear as they joked lewdly with each other, thankfully ignoring her.

Then, _he_ came down. The man who had helped her. He took the remaining seat (the one next to her) and gave a small smile–to her—before sitting down.

"Sorry," he said once he was seated. His voice was low and young. "Stupid me—I didn't get a chance to introduce myself earlier." He stuck out his hand, surprising Rose. "I'm Matt," he added.

Rose took his hand, but hesitated to answer. She still didn't know what he was, and not knowing was dangerous. But something welled up in her throat, and before she knew it—

"Rose." She fought to keep a straight face as her lips betrayed her.

"Rose," Matt repeated, still smiling. "That's a good name."

She studied him warily. She decided he was a pervert—either a dumb one or a smart one.

She returned to her soup, forcing the disgusting run-off down her throat—keenly aware of his eyes on her. "So, where are you headed?" He continued, his voice far too casual for Rose's liking. But once again, before she could even think of a false location, she found herself saying, "Just North, I guess. I'm traveling."

What the heck was wrong with her?

"Really?" Matt said, his eyes lighting up with interest in a very convincing manner and his spine straightening. "Me, too!"

Of course he was, the perv.

"Do you have a ride?" He continued, half of his attention on his slushy soup as he suspiciously skimmed it with his tarnished spoon.

This time, Rose was able to hold her tongue. "I s'pose," she replied, pleased with her nonchalantness. "But it's just my little car, and it's pretty cramped," she said, hoping to deter him.

"Is there any way you could fit me?" He asked, and Rose's heart jolted horribly. That was way too innocent a question for a pervert. Okay, it was official. He was a pain. He continued, "I tagged along with my cousin, Steven—" he gestured to one of the young men at the table, "But this is as far as he said he'd take me. I'm at a bit of a loss, here."

Rose looked at him for a moment. As always, his emerald eyes were wide and open and honest.

Then, to her enormous relief, she realized she had finished her soup.

As fast as her legs would carry her, she leapt up from the table and went for the steps as fast as she could without looking like she was running, leaving his question hanging open in the air and ignoring the surprised and slightly hurt look on his face.

—•—•—

When she finally made it to her room, she plopped down on the bed, running her hands through her hair. What the hell was happening to her? She had trained and conditioned herself the be a silver tongued entity, and she'd done a heck of a job, too. She could handle anything that came her way, able to blow it off and stay cool no matter how she felt inside. But there was something about this bloke that was frighteningly disarming.

She flinched when she heard a hard thump on the door, making the weak hinges rattle.

"What?" She snapped tersely, thinking it was the Land Lady making her come back out to clean up her abandoned dishes.

"Will you please talk to me?" Her heart plummeted when she detected none other than Matt's voice, ringing sharp with annoyance. Suddenly, she felt like a caged animal, cornered and trapped and frantic. Biting her lip, she yanked the zipper open on her front suitcase pocket and fished around until her hand closed around the slim, cool can of pepper spray she had bought for similar occasions.

"Rose?"

"Just a second!" She called, struggling with the adrenaline-spiked pitch of her voice. She stuffed the can deep into the pocket of her jumper before rolling back to her feet, taking a deep breath, and pulling the door open, wincing slightly as it squeaked in protest.

But the sight that greeted her was unexpected. Her alleged adversary stood in front of her, his arms crossed and eyebrows raised. Rose tried to formulate a remark, guessing he was going to wring her out or beat her down.

He said, his voice plain and slightly petulant, "Why are you afraid of me?"

Rose blanked, her hand halting where it lay concealed in the pocket of her jumper, wrapped around the warming can. "What?" She gawked.

Matt shifted irritatedly, up crossing his arms and thrusting them in his pockets before running them through his hair. "I don't get it," he huffed dejectedly, not meeting her eyes. "If you think I'm trying to have you on or something, I swear—I'm _not_. I wouldn't." He suddenly looked up, his eyes wide and confused. "But—you look at me—you look at me like you're convinced that I'm going to—I don't know—do something..._bad_. Why, though? I—I mean, what did I do?" His confusion seemed to be contagious: Rose couldn't understand why his tone wasn't accusatory—it was..._pleading_.

"Wait..." He breathed suddenly. He was staring her right in the face, and Rose took a tiny, unconscious step back. "You aren't really afraid of me, you just don't..." Understanding washed over his features, and he stepped back, his gaze softening and mouth quirking in a smile. "My name's Matthew Robert Smith. I'm twenty-one. I have three older brothers and one older sister—all of which who have ignored me from the day I was born. I can play rudimentary guitar, regard myself whole heartedly as a goofball, and graduated from college early with degrees in astronomy and cheese making. My favorite food is fish fingers and custard. I'm traveling because I was recently left on my own by a family who has always found some sort of self-serving use for me until now, and I've found myself a bit out of my time. The most important thing you should know about me is that I am always looking for an excuse to wear a bow tie."

Rose stared. She discreetly repositioned the bottle in her hand so she could juice him as soon as she pulled her hand out. He wouldn't know what hit him. "Why are you telling me this?" She said conversationally, hoping to distract him.

"Because I know what the problem is."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said, all chipper. "You don't trust me—and rightfully so, I know that now, but there's something else. So..." He paused briefly, grinning truly now. "Why don't you meet me outside in five minutes, and I'll tell you my life story? Soul for a soul?" He joked, leaning forward congenially...

...As if he was daring her. Rose could have taken him out right there and then. It would be far too easy give a quick, agonizing blast of chemicals to his eager, too-honest eyes and duck back inside her room...but she held back. It was the same feeling that had made her talk to him, the same feeling that made her heart warm.

She didn't trust it...but hell.


End file.
